


Ty and the Horse Lord of Hell

by the_random_writer



Category: Cut & Run - Madeleine Urban & Abigail Roux
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Horses, M/M, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 15:30:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4630470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ty has a grumble while recovering from a challenging moment with a horse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ty and the Horse Lord of Hell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TysKitties](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TysKitties/gifts).



Ty reached out with his left hand to punch the disobedient pillow back into the proper place. Pain lanced along his wounded ribs, and he swore loudly, instantly regretting his decision to move. Slowly and carefully, he pulled the arm in, sank back into the hoard of cushions, took a few calming breaths and waited for the pulsing fire in his torso to fade.

Cricket glanced up from her sleeping spot at the end of the bed, making sure her Favourite Human wasn't attempting to alert her to an imminent threat. Sensing that all was well, she tucked her head in under her paw and quickly went back to sleep.

Ty heard soft footsteps climb the stairs from the main floor. A few moments later, Zane appeared at the bedroom door, a questioning look on his handsome face. "Hey, doll, thought I heard you shout something. You okay?" the Texan asked.

Ty pouted slightly. "No, Zane, I am  _not_  okay," he petulantly shot back, still waiting for the hellish ache in his ribs to subside.

Zane bit hard on his lower lip to smother his grin before it was born.  _Princess Beaumont meltdown in three... two... one..._

Ty huffed and glared murderously at his spouse. He knew _exactly_ what that lip bite meant. "My shoulder hurts. My back hurts. My arm hurts. My hand hurts. My ribs hurt. I can't breathe. I can't sniff. I can't sneeze. I can't cough. I can't even  _fart_ without feeling like I'm about to come apart at the seams," he complained. "And I'm pretty sure I've actually dislocated my left ball."

Zane said nothing, but furrowed his brows very slightly and slowly leaned his head to the side as he pondered this  _fascinating_  new item of information. "Anything I can do to make you feel better?" he asked, genuinely concerned about Ty's condition.

"Unless you can find me a new left ball, Zane, no," Ty retorted in an indignant tone.

"Sorry, doll. I'd offer to go have a look at the store, but I'm pretty sure they'll be all out of left balls." Zane shoved his hands into his pockets and sauntered slowly into the room to stand at the side of the bed. "And I'm not sure how I feel about a replacement. I kinda like the left ball you have. We've been through a lot together, and I've got the little guy pretty well trained."

Ty snorted loudly and rolled his eyes. "Real cute, Lone Star. You're a fucking riot."

Zane shrugged his shoulders in modest agreement. One did one's best.

Ty sighed, narrowed his eyes and gave his husband another glare. He was pretty sure this whole ridiculous situation was actually all Zane's fault.

After all,  _he_  hadn't wanted to go anywhere near the stupid horse. He'd taken one look at the massive, hulking, bad-tempered brute and decided to name him Satan. The massive, hulking, bad-tempered brute had taken one look back at him and decided that today was an excellent day to fuck someone up.

No, he and Satan the Horse had not been meant for each other. But for his foolish moment of manly pride, the two of them would quickly have gone their separate ways.

Then Zane, his dear husband, the silver-haired, knife-wielding, motorbike-riding love of his life, his badass phoenix reborn, had  _oh-so_  casually mentioned that Sadie could ride Satan. That she was rather fond of the eccentric beast and had him quite well trained.

 _Challenge_.  _Fucking_.  _Accepted_.

(Precise Reasons: As Yet Unknown)

The honeymoon period, when Ty believed that he and the Equine King of Hell were actually going to get along, lasted a whole, whopping forty-five minutes. Then, suddenly, out of the blue, everything went to absolute and utter shit.

Satan decided that no, on second thoughts, he did not like his ill-mannered, new minion. Satan further decided to dispose of this now unwanted minion through the tried and tested method of Rapid Airborne Ejection. Onto the biggest, hardest, pointiest, hurtiest, most inconveniently located collection of rocks in the whole of fucking Texas.

Ejected minion, while writhing around on said rocks in agony, attempted to shoot Satan with his Glock, but was prevented from doing so by fellow minion, on the basis that while Satan might be the Lord of Death and Darkness, he was also a rather expensive beast.

Father of fellow minion helpfully pointed out that perhaps the calm, grey pony would have been a much safer choice.

_Memo to self, Grady. Next time, let the seven-year-old girl win._

He'd emerged from the hospital six hours later with a badly dislocated shoulder, a wrenched back, three cracked ribs, a lightly bruised spleen, two broken fingers and a left testicle that just wouldn't sit right, no matter where or how he tried to arrange it.

He'd almost caused an incident on the plane ride home, when his efforts to surreptitiously adjust his ball through the pocket of his jeans attracted the ire of the sour-faced old trout sitting in the seat across the aisle. His attempts to explain why he needed to manhandle his gentleman parts had only made the situation worse. Zane had been forced to show her The Badge, and had then quietly proposed that Ty should move to the window seat.

To add insult to injury, he'd then discovered he couldn't even rest on the living room couch. It was too soft on his dislocated shoulder and too hard on his wrenched back. Not to mention his poor, abused left ball. Sitting on it for half an hour had made him want to murder somebody in their sleep. Preferably the asshole horse breeder who had decided to create Satan.

Ty had therefore retreated to their master bedroom and the relative comfort of a luxury memory foam mattress. Propped up by the world's largest collection of goose down feather pillows, which Zane had insisted on plumping for him like a fussing, clucking mother hen.

So here he was. Three days later, and everything still hurt like an absolute fucking bitch. All this pain and suffering, just from falling off a goddamn horse. This aging crap was no fucking fun at all.

Zane pulled a hand out of his pocket and reached out to tenderly run his fingers through Ty's short, bed-mussed hair. "Can I get you anything, babe?" he asked. "Anything at all?"

Hearing the anxious affection in Zane's voice, Ty's expression instantly softened, dropping from furious, highly-trained killer all the way down to lover of tiny, fluffy cats. "Maybe a bag of gummy bears. And a small bowl of Cheetos. And a can of Dr. Pepper. And a glass. With some ice. And a straw. And my copy of the new issue of  _Special Weapons_. And my DVD of  _Die Hard_. And another couple of painkillers. Just the normal ones, though. Not the industrial stuff the hospital gave me."

Zane nodded and smiled, more than happy to accommodate Ty's unusual list of demands. "You got it, babe. Be right back."

As Zane turned to head for the door, Ty had another thought. "And Zane?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you maybe fluff my pillows for me again?" Ty asked, turning on his best humble, pleading, puppy dog eyes.

"Sure thing, doll," Zane replied. Then he flashed a thoroughly salacious grin. "You know I like to maintain my reputation as an attentive and efficient fluffer."

Ty let out an exaggerated groan.

"Bad pun penalty, Lone Star. No sex for you for at  _least_  a month."

 

 


End file.
